


to fall (and get back up)

by j_j_underscore



Series: with strings attached [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Civil War Team Iron Man, Gen, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_j_underscore/pseuds/j_j_underscore
Summary: Because maybe he could've done something, and that makes all the difference.





	to fall (and get back up)

**Author's Note:**

> no strict canon-following here for that big bad campfire story called Endgame, because it ends at Tony and Peter’s reunion, and that’s all.

  
  
There are times when he thinks he remembers his parents. But he can only remember the tiniest details and it’s like glimpses or pictures, moments wedged deep in his brain that he associates with pre-Queens and Ben and May and spider bites. 

Because this, right now, is almost all he knows. And the memories give him a distinct feeling, different than the constant. Like maybe there was a time when he was small and someone with a briefcase would come in through the front door and pick him up and settle him in their lap. And it was warm and soft and easy. Mozart in the kitchen. Tired smiles and small gray hairs and waffles at the dining room on Sundays.

They're small and fleet and they come in short bursts sometimes when he’s dizzy and gets up to fast or when he staring into the details of a picture he can’t remember. It leaves him dazed and lost, the kind when you wake up and you’re unsure of what your dreaming and if it’s reality (but he aches for it).

Because it’s warm and cozy and it gives him a feeling that settles in his chest that nothing can go wrong and nothing will because lights are streaming in through the window and there laughing at almost nothing because they're together. But that’s when he knows it's only a memory.

And it’s a distinct feeling. Like maybe it was another life, where he didn’t crawl into his bedroom at one in the morning with a weight in his chest that felt like it would pop at the slightest poke (a balloon with holes.) 

But the feeling is dulled when he thinks of anything else. Because Peter Parker is Spider-Man, and he's sure that in any life he would be. Because there’s a responsibility ( when you can do the things he can. And he's learned that responsibility demands a sacrifice of anything but.) And because of that, sometimes he’s not strong enough to hold it up ( that responsibility.)

Because of when he’ll hear Mozart playing and not even remember what it is until halfway through the music when it hits and settles warm in his chest (but it aches because it’s it's distant and not his and it hurts as far away nostalgia does) Because they’re half-remembered dreams that you have to focus to hold on to; fuzzy and blurry at the edges and they slip through your fingers if you focus too much (like trying to hold on to a dream after you wake up.)

And he tries to remember; he wants to remember because it’s warm and easy and it’s light streaming in through a window and laughing at nothing but they’re all together. And his heart squeezes on itself until it’s small and crumpled, because he remembers memories of them but he doesn’t remember them. It’s a stain across who they were because the feeling of their memory is loving and kind and it’s the weight of it that settles and buries, pushing deep into his chest to remind him.  

And then Ben and May are more, more, more; defined and distinct and with warm hugs and hands that run through his curls. There’s still something about a small kiss on his cheek, kind loving eyes and a crooked  smile that he yearns for achingly, because it’s warm and cozy and easy and digging into someone's chest and closing his eyes against their stomach and safe and secure and grounded, and the memory is enough to sustain him and leaving him weary with aching bones, as remembering something you had is. And even though the details are hazy, he can still remember how it feels _ (and that’s more than enough.) _

 

And sometimes in the dark of his room, counting the cracks lining his ceiling in the dead of the night (and he feels the edges of sleep catching in his vision but his mind is like a liquid that pours through his bones and keeps him restless), he tries to remember. But as much as he tries he doesn’t miss them. He knows that because of Ben, because he aches for his parents but it’s not love, at least the kind he knows.  _ (the kind where you try for someone even after their gone; to try to live up to promises made because he was everything more and that made Peter want to be better.) _ And he doesn’t mourn for them as he should. Not like something lost, more like something he doesn’t have. And he doesn’t break or bleed from their memory. He doesn’t really love them he supposes, and it’s something that hits him numbly, instead of painfully like it probably should. And he’s sorry that he doesn’t; because they were probably caring and wonderful and kind and smart and every good feeling he gets from memory  _ (But it's not love. Its only a small ache of what could've been.)  _

 

And then Ben and May are the complete opposite. 

Saturday morning cartoons, Beastie Boys blaring through the kitchen, Star Wars marathons, ice cream for dinner and someone running their hands through his hair before he falls asleep.

It’s different, a red splashed against yellow,  because they were there, more than anything, and it’s an overwhelmingly much, much more, like the memory of riding a roller coaster and then the real thing (and the real thing makes him smile without thinking, and he smiles so hard it burns in his cheeks.)

They’re more than just a half-remembered dream because they wash out the Mozart and the tired gray hairs and there’s nothing but Ben and May and home. His home, with his Iron Man posters and Lego sets and Stars Wars on DVR in the living room and it’s like a carving in wood you can trace your fingers through by memory because it’s everything he can remember and all he’s ever known. (It’s almost the same; almost. Just slightly woven different and missing a couple of strings, like the empty seat at the table and his voice that the empty air is thick with when the living room is silent)

And sometimes the sun is shining through the cracks of his window on a Saturday morning and he’ll walk into the kitchen and May will be cooking breakfast and it hits him so suddenly that his throat will burn and he can’t breathe. But even if its a memory that’s bittersweet, Ben was the tracing in the wood of his memory because he was there and solid and real. Not like the tall white house with the chimney in the front he sees sometimes when he goes past Brooklyn. It was the real thing (and it burns and aches fiercely.)  

 

Because he loved Ben. (It’s something that goes without saying, like how every day before school and every night Ben would say “I love you” without fail, and it always hit his chest the same) It’s why it hurts so much more because Ben was like a splash of red against yellow (and maybe he can say he misses his parents) but Ben was kind and funny and honest and he cared so, so much. And it was nothing like not remembering because he knows without a doubt that he loved him. 

 

Because it was different; it wasn’t struggling to remember (like a forgotten dream) like with his parents. And it wasn’t a warm memory that ached. It was constant and suffocating and instead of fleeting (It dragged on slowly.) and it was bittersweet with his memory and it hurts so, so bad, because Ben keeps coming back to him, persistent and stubborn (instead of a forgotten dream, he’s a neon sign that no matter how much it hurts he can’t get rid of) because he remembers Ben  _ everywhere _ . (and it’s love, he knows because Ben is everything he wishes he could be and it slams into his chest painfully with guilt.)   

 

And it hurts. Just when things seem like they’re okay (and it takes and takes and it takes.)

 

And maybe there's that tiny part of him that for as much as it hurts just wants to forget. To maybe (Accept that you loved him and that he’s gone) because three weeks after Ben’s death he was told this by a therapist and it stuck. Stuck and weeded it’s way through until it planted it’s roots and became the truth, because Ben was gone; And holding on was aching and constant and sometimes he thinks it would be easier if he never loved him at all. (It’s a small thought that leaks through the edges.) But he’ll shut that down. It’s a selfish thought that threatens to destroy him, because when he’s staring at the cracks in the ceiling of his room in the dark, and there are times when there’s nobody that can listen he lets out a tiny breath and admits to himself in the dark he’s not sure he can do this. He’s so tired of it all. (Because he’s selfish, (because responsibility is not a choice) (And Ben is what makes Spider-Man, he’s the words and the selflessness and courage that throws him in front of that bus when there’s a person behind it to protect)  and if the roles were reversed Ben would never forget him, never, no matter how much it hurts. 

 

Because more than being Spider-Man Peter loved Ben (and that meant living with it.) And even if he wanted to he couldn’t forget him if he tried.  _ (because Ben was like a splash of red on a mundane, forgetful yellow.)  _

 

\-------

\-----------

 

He put little Post-It notes on his desk.

  
  


It was filled to the brim with things Ben used to say. Because Ben was full of words and euphemisms and wisecracks and words that caught sparks and ignited flames because Ben was hope and it was contagious. (and Peter kept writing and writing until his room was full of it.)  When he was facing moral dilemmas or when there was sort of decision at risk; Ben spouted them off like the time of the day and they were like a small, unforgettable little fact you remember from 3rd grade for no supportable reason. Like Saturday morning cartoons, Beastie Boys in the kitchen, Star Wars marathons, ice cream for dinner, someone running their hands through his hair before he falls asleep. 

 

That was the thing about Ben. He was lame. ( and cheesy and funny and smart and passionate and brave and optimistic, and he was so, so caring that it hurt like someone squeezing his heart)  because Ben was always there, and he failed him like the red blooming across his chest. And it hurt in a way that nothing ever could compare because Peter never knew someone could care so much.  _ (and he missed him; he missed him so, so much, in a way that he could never imagine he would feel for someone, because he thought death was like a half-remembered dream and not this constant reminder that suffocates him) _ But now he knows what it’s like, to love so much it hurts and it’s terrifying and amazing and it’s a dangerous combination. (a kind that threatens to destroy. )

 

Because when there was a weight on his chest and Ben would say It wouldn’t be worth it if it was easy, he always had a knowing look on his face that said everything; that Peter already knew but he was just leading the way and Peter was the ‘something more’ that Ben saw him to be (and he wishes he could see it)

 

(It was because of when Ben told him in the dead of the night before leaving his room that he knew undoubtedly Peter was going to be the best of all of them and he still remembers something insignificant like the feel of the carpet through his toes. Because he couldn’t forget a single thing, not when someone was staring at him with so much hope.) Because he knew that he had to be enough when Ben looked at him like that.  _ (He couldn’t.)  _

 

Uncle Ben was uncandid. Honest. He said it was his best trait. And no matter how many times Peter scoffed halfheartedly when Ben said that he was right, (He was so, so right.)

 

But now Peter doesn’t think he can be enough and he didn’t know how to tell Ben when he looked at him like something more (like a hero.) 

 

_ (But now he was dead because Peter didn’t.)  _

 

And now the notes on his desk are folded up and crumpled and cracked at the edges; fading from age and use and it reminds Peter each passing day that it’s another day that Ben is gone because of him.  _ (Because if you can do something, and you don’t, then the  bad things happen because of you.)  _

 

And Aunt May.

 

He sees the way she looks; tired and worn and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry for everything but he can’t force the words out, because he’ll pop like a balloon with poked holes with all the baited breath inside of him (that will deflate when May is looking at him like that and he'll break like glass.) Because what if Ben was still here. ( _ Because he could’ve been.) (Because Peter did nothing)  _ Because she doesn’t know the reason the same way she doesn’t know Ben’s last words he uttered with the red blooming in his chest. 

 

Because  _ (she knows he’s Spider-Man but she doesn’t know the reason he gets out of bed.)   _

 

And she’ll have a look that’s pinched and creased at the edges. Like those crumpled pieces of paper (aging and withering from too much miscare.) And it aches in his chest like Ben. 

 

She’s worried (worried about him, he realizes distantly.) And maybe she’s worried that he’ll go too.  _ (a static timeline repeating itself over and over again. ) _

 

(He can’t have her lose anyone else.)

 

And it hurts in a whole different way, helplessly, because he can never tell May the same way he doesn’t wake her up with his thoughts of what he could’ve done differently when he’s staring at the tiny cracks in the ceiling. Because he can remember distantly like a small memory before he lived with them when May had nights out instead of working, fewer shifts (wrinkles from smiling instead of the ones on her forehead), and she had her life and she had her possibilities and futures and more than anything she had Ben. 

 

(Something he hates to admit to himself; though he knows it’s true and it stabs him in the chest and twists because he loves May like he loves Ben and he wants her to be happy.) 

 

And she was happier then. And sure she cares about Peter, but she always had Ben and they already had their own thing before he came along; their own unspoken language and inside jokes and he knows, as much as she loves him, she loved Ben first.  (May never asked for a son.)

 

He remembers, even after his parents died but before Ben, her face was younger; with fewer wrinkles around her forehead and her eyes were even fuller then, lighter. (But now they’re heavy with all the weight of the responsibilities that she shouldn’t have had to take on.) Because for her it only takes (and takes and takes and takes.) And even though she’s still beautiful now, she was even more beautiful then, with fewer gray hairs and wrinkles and vibrant eyes that were glowing because they were going places. They were more. (and he destroyed it with one single touch.)

 

(And he killed her dream and he killed Ben and it keeps growing and growing and he’s selfish because he doesn’t know how much more May can take.)

 

It reminds him of a story in History they were studying during Greek Mythology. An old man named King Midas. The man who turned everything he touched to gold. (And now it seems like he everything he touches deteriorates. Sometimes quickly in a pool of blood or excruciatingly slow and he hates himself for it.) 

 

( And like King Midas, nothing escapes his path.)

 

She tries to hide it from him, but it’s a pool of nostalgia and heartache and grief that’s shining at the edges of her eyes instead of glowing. That’s tried but cracking. Smiling yet anguished. It’s a sharp bitter reminder, like the quick flashes of sorrow on her face when she’s sitting on the couch going through Ben’s old scrapbook and she thinks he’s gone to bed. The tired sighs and the times when she’s trying to keep up a smile but her knuckles are white from leaning all her tired weight into the table. Or those late nights when he’s back from fighting crime and battered and bruised and he can’t hold it together and he’s breaking like glass with shaky breaths and she takes him in and holds him there. She holds him together, his face put into her stomach like she would always do because like finishing the other’s sentence she just knows, and with her looks of sorrow and tired weight and tiny frame (why?) Why when Ben belonged to her more than him.

 

Selfish, and not thinking about the others, the people left behind from his mistakes that have to pick up the pieces. (Like at homecoming with Liz and her mom and every other life he’s ruined, because dueled with each person saved he can never forget the ones he’s failed) And May. May that has to hold him together when she’s the one that’s lost everything. With tired smiles and small gray hairs and deteriorating slowly. 

\-------------------

  
  


_ With great power comes great responsibility _

  
  


_ A suit doesn’t make you a hero _

 

_ You do things simply because it should be done _

_ If you don’t, the bad things; they happen because of you _

 

……

_ Whatever you’re going to do, you’ll be great _

 

_ I just want you to be happy Peter _

...

\-----------------------

  
  


It’s a small thought.  

 

A small thought that takes roots and now he can’t not think about it. Because he’s staring at the top of his ceiling with the small cracks in the edges in the dark of the night, and it’s 4 A.M.  The time when it’s too late and too early, and May’s asleep but she has to get ready for work in a few hours and he can hear her slow breathing down the hall, he can hear quiet conversation two floors down (He can hear the whole complex and his mind itches with all the input). With the whole world asleep he can’t help but think (it’s the only time his mind isn’t a jumble of senses and half thoughts.)  

 

And it’s the kind of thought that hits him with a start because of  _ “what if?” _ and now he can’t not think about it  _ (and it grows and grows and grows like a crushing weight on his chest)  _ Because did Ben know? If he knew and he knew that he while he stood there he could’ve done something; that he could’ve saved him-

 

_ I love you Pete. _

 

And then it’s a fleeting moment when it’s 2 A.M when he’s coming in quietly through the window to not wake May, and he’s battered and bruised and he’s tired and his chest feels like a damn that’s about to break (and it’s a barrage on his mind because someone always gets hurt and nothing changes and he doesn’t know if he’s enough.) But May along with the rest of the world is asleep when he is awake. 

 

He can’t do anything but lay awake and count the cracks in the ceiling and do anything but go to bed and fall asleep because he can’t. Not with all his responsibilities he’s supposed to live up to (because he’s Spider-Man and responsibility isn’t a choice) that weigh over him threateningly in the form of a tiny list with names of people hidden under dirty clothes (because someone always gets hurt), and broken promises and words that swore, to be better and do everything in his ability no matter what. And now he’s trying to hold it all up but it’s so, so hard. 

 

And then there are moments when he feels like clay that’s being molded again and again when he’s taking every punch and making split-second decisions to get the job done and do whatever it takes because it’s for the greater good and he feels like maybe he can take it  _ (because there’s a second when he’s standing in his bedroom in his suit and he’s looking out across the city before May walks in he feels like something more.)  _

 

And then there’s the nights when he’s counting the cracks in the ceiling and he feels like a balloon full of air with each baited breath that would puncture at the tiniest hole (that would pop at the tiniest breath) and he takes in a shaky breath and feels like glass about to break, because it’s so hard to hold it all together  _ (when he’s only reminded of every person he’s failed and every line crossed and every promise broken, compromised and torn in the sand that was told to his uncle who’s shirt is blooming with red.) _ And he doesn’t know how he can make it up. But he’s Spider-Man, so he puts back on the suit.  _ (Always.)  _

 

And when he’s counting the cracks in his ceiling and he feels like his chest is about to break with every what if and the things he could’ve done he counts it through his head,  _ (because responsibility is not a choice and if he doesn’t do anything then bad things  _ **_will happen_ ** _.) _

 

It was things that were direct and blunt and sincere and so Ben-like his throat caught in his chest. Because Ben would always say what was on his mind.  

 

_ the reason why he got out of his bunk bed every morning _

 

_ If you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn't have it _

 

Fighting for the little guy.

 

Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man.

 

_ Whatever you’re going to do, you’ll be great. I know you will.  _

...

\-----------------

  
  
  
  


It’s right that things fall apart on the job. ( Peter Parker begins and ends with Spiderman.)

 

It’s a low-key crime. No wormholes or Chitari or Toomes. It’s Queens, so it involves a bank robbery and five guys in masks and it’s nothing that he’s worried about because it’s not falling through the sky. Suffocating under a blanket of white that twists and pulls at his frame but doesn’t ease, or beams crushing his back and his cries are small and childish and he bites back a cry because feels so small (because if he’s not anything without the suit how can he be more?) or a sinking ferry full of people that he can’t hold up no matter how much he bleeds and breaks and molds again to hold it together (It’s not the kind that wakes him up at night screaming, seeing things in the dark, or whimpering when he gets stuck in a subway car, and praying for someone to come save him in the middle of a history test when the lights suddenly go out.) Things that make him feel so small even in his suit because sometimes even as Spider-Man he feels like a little kid who’s scared of the dark and sees things when they're not there and is everything less (Because Peter Parker is Spider-Man and Spider-Man is Peter Parker) but an Avenger wouldn’t be so.. (Afraid, and he’s so tired of feeling like less. And he wants to be everything his Uncle wanted him to be but after Toomes he’s afraid of being trapped and it pulls him at the strings because this isn’t the something more he imagined) 

 

(But he puts the mask on anyway (even if sometimes he can’t breathe behind it) because he’s Spider-Man and responsibility isn’t a choice.)

 

“ You know, the whole ‘baddies robbing a bank’ things a little old, don’t you think? Maybe break the mold. Try something new. Take up knitting. I got a Spanish midterm I gotta get studying too if you catch my drift.”

 

“It’s the Spider-Man!”

 

“Get out of here!”

 

His head is buzzing, buzzing with anticipation and his senses are tingling .(Somethings about to happen.) And the leader, he would call him that since he seems to be making the shots, points a gun straight at his chest and his heart is beating faster with a course of action than his mind can process ( time speeds up and he can smell the copper on the barrel and the powder from the bullet)

 

He shoots a web and pulls himself to the other wall hastily, right before he pulls the trigger. But he was too slow. He can feel the side of his arm burning from where the bullet grazed across his forearm and his ears are ringing from the shot. All his senses are going haywire, all directed toward the burning and pulsing through his arm and it pounds louder than the alarm. His head is throbbing and there’s red that’s distorted and beating and blurring on the edge of his vision. He can see the man take his mask off. He’s shocked by the blast but before Peter can recover he’s out the door, running to the other side of the street.

 

He recovers and pulls himself out of the building. 

 

“ Wait, hold up guys! I think you’re forgetting something!”

 

Suddenly there’s a tingling- then a screaming in the back of his skull. It pulls him to a stop because everything is frozen it seems, waiting for something to happen but it’s the voice in his head screaming (Wrong, Wrong, Wrong)

 

Then it’s like a screech and bang, screaming, and then dead silence. Unsettling, like the aftermath of an explosion and they’re all waiting for it (the casualties, what was lost). The dust is settling and no one moves. 

 

And in that chaos, he runs to the scene of the crime (He’s Spider-Man). Even though his head is screaming in his skull and heart is pounding in his throat and he can’t breathe it seems like, he tries and then comes up short. Because he knows this place, he knows it, running through cars and hysterical people asking and wondering what’s going on, but it’s all washed away by the screaming in his ears, that familiar terrified thudding in his chest as he runs past people and it causes his hands to shake because he knows and it’s too much like-

 

_ There’s blood everywhere _ . It’s the first thing he sees and it’s dark red and swirling and almost all he can see. It’s covering the pavement, it’s all over the body- the body. But it’s not a body yet; (yet is the key word and it makes him sick that he thinks that but he knows)  He’s still moving and his body is shaking and it’s a sign that’s he’s alive, but-

 

There’s red everywhere. It’s supposed to be in his body but- ( _ it’s spilling over the edges.) _

 

His eyes are wandering, looking for something but he’s not looking at anything at all, or anything at once (And now that he can see him behind the mask he can see that he’s so young) Not as young as Peter he supposes but his eyes are wide and shaking and it pulls at him like strings.  _ (because he could’ve done something) _

 

(It’s on the tip of his tongue. A half-formed thought, it’s there but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it, let it become a full grown thought that takes over.)

 

His eyes are still alive and brown with a tint of gold. (But his skin is white.) And there’s still pink in his cheeks.  _ (But it’s overshadowed by all the red crimson.) _

 

(There’s blood everywhere. And he can’t take it because it’s the same dark shade that blooms under Uncle Ben’s shirt  _ (and spreads across the edges until it’s all he can see.)  _

 

And Peter’s frozen. Frozen and he doesn’t move (because he’s stuck in this endless excruciating horrible loop that will never stop.) because it’s all happened before and he's always  the one that tips the dominoes over and leaves nothing left in his wake. (And he hates himself so much for it.)

 

The man looks at him. It's desperation (and it twists and it pulls like cracks at the surface until there’s wrinkles forming and It shines in his eyes like Ben.) And it twists Peter’s chest like a knife. He springs into action, taking the man’s head in his hands. There’s no one around them; the police have cleared the scene and the man in the car, the man who by chance was driving down that empty street that night at just the precise moment is gone now (like Ben, who was looking for Peter when he was out too late because Ben cared and he was everything he wanted but didn’t deserve.) It’s just him and Peter and he takes off his mask. A friendly face, hopefully, but his eyes are just as scared as the other man’s and he hopes it doesn’t reflect in his expression. But he’s never seen this much blood, even with- 

 

“ It’s gonna be alright, okay? You’re going to be alright.” 

 

And he can’t help but be reminded ( because it takes and it takes and it will never be enough, another face and name that will be etched in his memory because he couldn’t.) 

 

“You’re going to be just fine. Just hold on, ok?” 

 

And he can feel everything with a threatening conviction ( it’s like his senses went from being dialed up from eleven to thirty.) 

 

_ (And he tells him exactly what he said to Ben that night.) _

 

“ I’m here, ok? I’m here.” 

 

“ I’m sorry man, It was for my daughter, it was for my-”  

 

“ I know, I know.”

 

He stopped his explanations; he knew the second he laid eyes on him he was innocent, and it hurts to hear it but maybe it should hurt. He did this and he won’t spare himself the agony because Ben always taught him to take responsibility.   

 

He wasn’t enough; he was never enough. 

 

“What’s her name?” His voice cracks and stutters over like cracks in the sidewalk and he chokes on his voice. 

 

“Gabriella, Gabriella Girasol Flora Lopez. She’s an angel man, she’s my baby girl. My girlfriend, she had a miscarriage- the- the other first few times but then we had her and...oh god, it was like she was made out of light.” 

 

In his face, there’s only pure emotion. Fear and desperation and it contours and illuminates the lines in his forehead, the paleness in his face and narrowness in his cheeks.  _ (Small gray hairs and wrinkles and tired smiles)  _

 

(because there’s always someone else.) 

 

_ (everything he touches deteriorates.) _

 

A tear runs down the man’s face, running ragged on the side of his cheek where he let his head fall sideways. It falls in his blood and he feels something bubble on the sides of his eyes, and he can’t control it. It burns and explodes through his chest, it spills over until he can only feel the bitter burning in his eyelids and the blood rushing to his head and the warm stuff in his nose.

 

“Baby, I’m sorry.”

 

(And he goes quietly into his arms, unnoticeable, imperceptible. But Peter knows because there’s a moment when Uncle Ben’s shirt blooms red and suddenly everything stops) and he can feel that small part inside of him leave. (He feels his soul leave, maybe. Because it stirs, and the light, the tint of gold in his eyes fades, and it’s not peaceful or slow and he’s whimpering before he falls short, and he can only be reminded of the light that left Ben’s eyes and it leaves them empty.)   

 

It’s agony, and he knows it’s because of him.

 

He can feel nothing there and he knows he’s gone. He can feel the stickiness of the blood on his hands suddenly, sharply, bitterly, making him all acutely aware as a sob wracks through his body  _ (because responsibility isn’t a choice.) _

 

\---------

\------

T.S 10:07 -Hey.

T.S 10:08 -Saw the headline. 

T.S 10:08 -You ok?

…

...

T.S 10:09 -I’ll Be there in 10

P.P 10:09 -actually May just got home and she’s pretty tired.

P.P 10:09 -i am too. pretty bruised up. not feelin too good.

P.P 10:09 -maybe another time?                     

T.S 10:09 -Yeah. Sure. 

…

…

…

…

T.S 10:11 -This isn’t on you kid.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


\--------

\---

 

It’s small thoughts, small feelings and small words that culminate and grow like seeds taken root with the opportunity to. (This is something Peter Parker knows now) because on the front page of the newspaper a guy who was only doing it for his sick daughter is seen only as a criminal, his life and death on a tiny section. (a small detail, and it’s something that grows when he sees the headline, and it’s a headache until his throat burns and he throws up in the bathroom when May leaves for work.)

 

Because more than that his life was being a husband and a father and he was something to someone.  

 

(‘He had a family’ is the something he doesn’t know he can live with.)

 

(But Peter Parker is Spider-Man and Spider-Man is Peter Parker, and Spider-Man always puts back on the suit.)

 

(It’s the tiniest details that grow.) when he gets back home he takes a shower to wash off the blood- it’s in his hair, on his hands, on his arms, the fingerprints where the man reached for him. And the phantom touches on his arms that itch like bee stings ( the ones he used to get when he was little and he can remember a little picket fence on the recesses of his memory.) That feeling where’s there’s nothing on his skin but he can still feel it (something he tried to wash off but he can’t; that besides the small bruises on his arms from where the man touched him that are already fading they will always be there.)

 

Or the blood in his fingernails; and the place under them that's hard to reach and won’t wash off no matter what he does, even when he rubs his fingers raw until they’re a charred pink at the edges of his skin. 

 

(He knows it now. It’s an endless time loop, a domino effect that’s everlasting and he’s always sitting in the aftermath knowing, knowing it was because of him.

  
  
  


\-------

 

...

It’s at 4 A.M

 

(and it glares neon green through the dark of his room.) 

  
  


Uncle Ben died because he failed to act. 

 

Because he had powers but did nothing; (saw the bad guy and let him go, turned his shoulder and watched him run) And it was like a butterfly effect, because he lets the man robber ran past him who he could’ve easily taken down and then Uncle Ben gets shot. And it had to be because there’s no other rhyme or reason it would’ve happened in that way if there wasn’t a reason. 

  
  


Uncle Ben said to Peter three weeks before he died.

 

_ Failing to act, is as bad as doing something wrong. If you can do something, and you don’t, bad things happen because of you. _

 

If only he knew; how heavily those words rested on him those nights when he didn’t know what to do. Then again maybe he did. Maybe he knew all along.

 

_ And if you don’t, it’s because of you _

 

_ Responsibility is not a choice _

 

But he did choose. He did because Ben died for him and he tried to do good, he tried so hard because Ben had to die for a reason the same way that there was a reason Ben died when he let that man go.

 

He had to do good because that’s exactly what Ben would’ve done.

 

(What a hero would do.)

 

_ You are in dire need of an upgrade _

 

But he was Spider-Man long before the fancy suits. (And he was Spider-Man without the suit) The suit doesn’t make him Spider-Man because Peter Parker is Spider-Man. 

 

(And maybe it doesn’t matter how great his suit is because the suits just a vessel and in the end, he’s in control. (the gun doesn’t fire the bullet)

 

Because Peter Parker is Spider-Man but Ben was always the symbol behind it (because Peter Parker is Spider-Man but Ben was the reason why.)

 

Because he’s Spider-Man, but then there was a burning plane, and Liz and her family, and Ben and that man and his family and he doesn’t know if he’s even doing any good and it piles and piles  _ (and takes and takes.) _

  
  
  


_ I’ve been me my whole life. _

 

But he was who he was because of Uncle Ben. Ben was the reason and the cause and the something more and the why he got out of his bed. Ben was so much more and he was just pieces and parts of people but it wasn’t enough because fragments don’t hold up to the real thing. ( And he was a sliver of a candle held up to Ben’s flame.)

 

(And if responsibilities a choice and what he did mattered, because of what he did bad things did happen. And without a sliver of a doubt he was never enough, and he knows this in those moments when he’s glass and May has to hold him together because he’s just pieces and parts and the real thing is so much more.)

 

(He is just a sum of its parts.) 

 

(A hero isn’t scared of the dark.) 

 

(A hero is strong; a hero saves people and doesn’t destroy their lives.)

 

(A hero doesn’t let people die)

 

It’s on the tip of his tongue now, but he doesn’t want to say it because then it would be real.

 

_ Whatever you’re going to do, you’ll be great _

 

_ I just want you to be happy Peter _

 

But he knew, he knew the same way he chose to let that robber go without knowing what would happen (but it shouldn’t have mattered.) It shouldn't have mattered because he could’ve done something (and a hero does something without hesitation and without needing a reason; because if you can do something and you don't bad things happen.) And they did and maybe it was Ben because he could’ve done something. 

 

And he knew, again and again, he would never be everything Ben wanted him to be. He would never measure up. He knows because of the dark of his bedroom when he’s staring at the cracks in the ceiling and all he can see is the red blooming from Ben’s chest and he knew from the second he realized when he got his powers was when he was Spider-Man. (And no amount of counting it through his head could hide the fact) He had his powers long before Ben died. (And he did nothing.)    

 

(And Peter Parker is Spider-Man.) 

  
  


And he tried (he tried so hard to be better. ) He stayed up late and molded and shifted and reshaped like clay when he took punches and let people that were innocent go because he wanted to make a difference in people's lives, the way Ben irrevocably did. (Because that’s what Ben would’ve done.)

 

But he just kept screwing it up. Over and over and not being everything Ben wanted him to be (everything he’s supposed to be, because he’s Spiderman and responsibility isn’t a choice when you can do something.)

 

And he knows he left a dead man in his wake. Two dead men in his wake. It hits him with a start, but it goes on and on (and it’s endless). 

 

Because no matter how much he tries to make it up he just digs himself further into a hole full of names and faces and regrets and it’s almost impossible to hold this up. (This responsibility, when there are dead people in his wake.) 

 

And he knows that if it were the other way or the other it should’ve been Ben. (It should’ve always been Ben.  )

 

Because Spider-Man is less than the Post It notes on his desk when he was facing indecision. Because maybe they made him Spider-Man but they were Ben’s first. They were Ben’s words, Ben’s hope, Ben’s goodness and strength and everything he wanted to prove he was when he was stitching that suit in red and blue (In Truth and Justice and Captain America and Iron Man figurines on his desk because they reminded him of Ben (but Peter Parker is Spider-man and Spider-man is Peter Parker and neither are enough. Because those people are heroes.  Because he wanted to prove himself and be a hero too but when he needed to be he wasn’t, and he would always be making up for that knowing he never could.) 

 

(Because maybe he could’ve done something, and that makes all the difference.)

 

(But he’s just a selfish kid that wanted to be better but could never be enough.) 

 

Because that’s what it was. It was just another thing that he corrupted. Another thing he wanted to prove. 

 

_ Like the party and homecoming and the ferry. _

 

Prove he was ‘something more.’

 

And he was selfish.

 

And then he ruined Liz’s life, Liz’s mom’s life. And the list went on and on and it’s there, under his desk and piles of dirty clothes so he couldn’t forget because he can’t forget. And he didn’t think to wonder about what would happen next ( what would happen after the dust settled and the bad guys were put away.)

 

He was just a kid 

 

(but it wasn’t an excuse)

 

_ And I wanted you to be better _

\---------

….

\------------

  
  


He doesn’t leave the house the next day. It’s a Friday and he doesn’t even go to school and it isn’t the best choice because he has an AP Euro test he can’t tank right now because he’s bordering on a B and he promised May school would come before Spider-Manning. But she’s another person on his list he’s failing so miserably. 

 

May calls and his heart leaps in his throat because this is in the middle of her shift. 

 

“So, you wanna explain to me why I’m getting a call that you’re not in your 1st period? Or your 2nd?” 

 

“Oh..Oh shoot May-” 

 

“Peter-”

And she says it in that way he knows so achingly well, (because her voice is taut and strained and on the edges of its strength.) Because he always stretches and pulls her like a puppet at the edges of strings (and his heart stretches and pulls) because May’s like those pieces of paper that are crumpled and torn from miscare; torn and etched (and yet still caring and understanding because she’s so much more) 

 

(Like Liz, when she told him ‘I hope you figure it out Peter’ and looked at him, torn and crumpled from miscare. And yet in empathy, even though he failed her in D.C and the dance and she was the one losing everything because he put her dad in jail without thinking of the consequences and the people left behind. And it was all lies and promises that he can’t keep because he wants to be enough but he’s not and he knows, with both of them that he doesn’t deserve it.) 

 

And he hates that voice, hates making her feel that way that without asking for it Peter feels the need to pay for it, to compensate because May never asked to be a parent.  

 

And

 

“I’m sorry May. I just can't.” 

 

His voice is brittle, and it cracks and shakes. He doesn’t even know what he would say. There’s needed to be said at that moment, to apologize for everything he put May through. But he’s failing her again and again and there’s words there; for everything, but he doesn’t know how to put them because the list is piling and piling and he’s spilling over the edges with words to say ( because he never gets it right.)

 

But like any crack, or line, any small detail, May knows his misgivings like the back of her hand ( And why did Peter think he could keep Spider-Man away from her for so long?) because she’s more understanding than anyone he knows, ( but he doesn’t deserve it.) 

 

“ Oh Petey…. no, it’s okay honey. Look, I’ll call the school, bring some Thai home early and we can watch Star Wars. That sound good?” 

 

Her voice is like a warm hug through the phone, and it’s in moments like this he’s reminded he doesn’t deserve her. 

 

“Perfect.” 

 

There’s a pause over the phone. 

 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

 

There's a moment when he’s at the brink of destruction; he can feel the wreck, the blood spilling over the edges, the man who died in his arms filling in his lungs and slipping off his tongue, a need to tell her because May would understand-  

 

Then he’s brought back with a harsh slap to reality when he hears the intercom ping and the woman yelling May’s name on the other side of the phone and he swallows the lump in his throat. 

 

Selfish 

 

“ It’s fine.” He’s sure she can hear the crack in his voice. 

 

And of course he couldn’t tell her, the same way he couldn't talk about Ben. It wasn’t his place. He couldn’t drag her into the same hole he was in because he needed it. She didn’t deserve it. (Peter Parker was Spider-Man, he could be strong.)

 

“ Ok.”  He can hear the hesitancy in her voice. 

 

“ It’ll get better, I promise.” This time he hangs up the phone ( he held his finger over the end button for a few seconds just to take comfort from her voice.) There’s a part of him, something that sways over the couch from the memory of something warm and okay, and he wants her to talk to him comfortingly as she puts a hand in his curls. But he’s not a kid anymore (He’s Spider-Man) and he has to take responsibility for his actions and if he stayed on the phone any longer he knows he wouldn’t.  

\---------

 

\-----------

Even though Uncle Ben had his many specialty’s, Aunt May always had her moments. Her empathy and understanding and resilience that probably made her to be a nurse in the first place, and kind of warmth that he loves so much it physically hurts. 

 

It’s in these moments when there are questions, but she doesn’t bombard him in a way that would break him down. Just a quiet understanding that he appreciates more than she’ll ever know, sitting in silence under blankets eating Thai and watching Star Wars for about the millionth hundredth time and maybe things are okay for a little while. 

 

But of course the questions come, after slowly paving the way with food and Star Wars,  because she’s May and she worries and he gets it, he does, but he’s past the point of bringing up the subject and there’s nothing he wants less than to talk. Because then she’ll ask him questions and he’ll get frustrated and he’s just so so tired of talking at this moment he wants to lay here in her warmth and not think of anything. 

 

“Honey.” she comes across gently. Maybe she thinks he’ll break out and start screaming but that’s ridiculous because she’s May. 

 

“I’m worried about you. You’re going out there every night and you’re taking on so much with this whole Spider-Man thing, and school, and decathlon. And I know that you need to do this, and I don’t really know what’s going on, or what’s wrong, and it drives me crazy some nights but… I love you.”

 

Her eyes are soft and there’s a touch of gold in her brown, that and the words pull at him like strings because she loves him but she doesn’t know the reason why Ben is gone and if she did maybe she wouldn’t, but maybe she would because she’s much too understanding. (and it aches.) 

 

“ Just know that no matter what happens, I’ll support you. I just.. want to know what’s going on sometimes. Because I’m your family Peter, and I worry. But this? And what you’re doing? You’re so strong Peter. and I’m so proud of you. Ben would be so, so proud of what you’re doing.”

 

He tries to take in a breath but it’s stuck in his throat and stays there. (and he tries to swallow but there’s tears forming in his eyes that drown and blurry his vision) because she doesn’t know and he can’t tell her because he’s not strong. (because Ben’s words three weeks before he died were to do something and that’s exactly what he didn’t do.)

 

The room is warm and his bones turn soft and melt into May’s arms as she runs a soothing touch through his curls. Obi-Wan Kenobi is dying in hiss of smoke and red on the T.V above but it’s drowned out  by May, being warm and comforting and wonderful and- (he tries to breathe but he inhales and it’s like glass breaking, and there’s a lump in his throat) He can’t breathe because May’s love physically hurts and May’s running a hand through his curls and the smell of the Thai food reminds him of setting the table at dinner and he can remember Ben asking him at the table when they were talking  _ “Are you okay with this Peter?”  _ and he hasn’t been asked that in a long, long, time. 

 

(because he’s the reason why. (because he was selfish) and it’s something that Ben would’ve never done ever in his life, even for his enemy because Ben was always the bigger man and just… like that, and every bit that Spiderman needed to be but wasn’t. (Because Peter Parker is Spider-Man.)

  
  


“ May, Ben should be here.”

 

It’s something that runs off his to tongue because it’s always been there, and he’s been wanting to get it off his shoulders since he was taken it to the police station that night with Ben’s blood on his hands. But he shouldn’t say it, he shouldn’t be able to get it off his chest because Ben belonged to May first and it didn’t come out right, it didn’t come out right, and he’s always doing the wrong thing when he’s trying to get it right and he hates what he’s doing to her. 

 

He sees her facade break and her face crumble for just a second, but only a second because May has to be strong for him. And May is there because she’s always there and he doesn’t deserve it, he knows with every fiber in his being but he takes it anyway, because he’s the weak one (and he hates it, he hates it because he’s supposed to be Spiderman and he’s supposed to be protecting her.) But she holds him there,  _ ( she takes him in and holds him there; she holds him together with her looks of sorrow and tired weight and tiny frame (why?) Why when Ben belonged to her more than him. )  _

 

“ Oh, I know baby. I know. But he loved you, Peter. He loved you so much.”

 

I just want you to be happy Peter

 

And he hated it. He hated that he was here and not Ben and he hated that everyone felt that he wasn’t to blame and he was and he hated that Ben’s last dying words were trying to comfort him because he may as well have pulled the trigger but Uncle Ben was the bigger man. Always.   

 

And no one seems to understand that Ben didn’t just die. He because of him. It wasn’t an accident, he knows that and it’s eating him up inside and he doesn’t know if he could live with it. 

 

(The words of a dying man, tied like a knot in his memory and he would never forget because it was for him, it was always for him because Ben cared, he cared so much.) 

 

This isn’t on you, Peter

It’ll be okay. 

 

_ Whatever you do, you’re going to do great, I know you will.  _

 

It’s the note hidden in his jacket pocket that he struck through, (and yet he’s been staring)

 

(because there’s failures written in a list under his clothes in his room and he knows that he isn’t something more) and the note crumbles under the strength of his fingertips accidentally, (But he’s a destroyer, isn’t he?) and he crushes it under the fabric of his jacket so in a way that May can’t see. 

  
  


\---------

\-----

...

The next morning Mr. Stark comes in a way that can only describe him ( crashing through the normal and silence with a sideways smirk and no questions asked) but in an inconspicuous enough way that doesn’t alert everybody that Iron Man’s visiting a teenage boy in Queens.

 

He comes to his doorway and Peter’s more than a little surprised. 

 

This time it was Tony alone- (no empty helmet, no buffering Happy) hands casually in his pockets at the door of his apartment. (But the action seems forced. His eyes are burning through his sunglasses and there’s a slight shake to his hands under his jacket pockets but this is Tony Stark he’s talking about, so he must be seeing things.)

 

The force of his presence is enough to root Peter in place, with his bloodshot eyes and pale-purplish skin and Iron Man pajamas that he willed to be less embarrassing as his cheeks burned, pajamas that he definitely would’ve changed if he knew it would be Mr. Stark at the door.

 

because for the longest time he was only used to May, May and her understanding quiet-yet strongly resilient nature. And Mr. Stark is almost the opposite, strong and fierce and loud with his presence in a different way. 

 

He stares at him so long with his burning look behind his shades that it becomes uncomfortable and intimidating and Peter has multiple possible plays in his head; to either laugh it off or yelling at the man asking him what he wanted. Because he was at the breaking point; he was just… so, so tired and so done with the full-on attention and stares he’s not used to and feeling uncomfortable in his own home and being in Iron Man pajamas in front of the very unsympathetic Mr. Stark, which he knew no matter how tense the situation he would say something snide and sarcastic and put Peter in his in-between state of turning red and laughing uncomfortably. 

 

He was just so tired. 

 

A small smirk twitched on the side of Mr. Stark’s face and he knew he was done for. 

 

“ Nice outfit Spider-ling. Keeping it neutral.”  He gave him a thumbs up as he breezed past, while Peter groaned in-between his hands. 

 

“ Sorry, I didn’t know you were coming, you know, TOday, today.”  And Peter wished he didn’t have a mouth, or words, or the curse to talk like a stupid teenager in front of the only Mr. Stark., who had the tendency to turn him into a blubbering mess (because of the Iron Man drawings in crayon in his bedroom two doors down.) 

 

“ No it’s okay, I like it. It’s great. Just priceless. Just letting you know, full-disclosure- Spider-Man is now officially the first choice for Team Iron-Man. Number-one. Just don’t tell the rest of the Avengers.” 

 

He looks through their shelf of books and takes out The Catcher In The Rye and crosses over to their couch and it’s a little awe-striking; Tony Stark in his living room (Even though technically this isn’t the first time. There was Germany but that was special circumstances and a crazy Captain America. But this was different because that was Iron Man and Spider-Man, and this is Peter Parker and Tony Stark and he has red-rimmed eyes and there’s a shake to Mr. Stark’s hands) And it’s overwhelming as a black spot in a yellow carpet. Because it’s so clearly obvious that Mr. Stark doesn’t belong in their apartment as much as he acts right at home.  And it’s almost hidden by the way he strides through without a care, but it shines through persistent. 

 

There's still the twitchy way he circles the couch that Mr. Stark knows he doesn’t belong there and he can feel the fragile atmosphere where his presence breaks that. He’s nervous, he realizes and it’s very, really weird in the same way that it’s weird that there's a shakiness in his stride because he’s Tony Freakin Stark, and he’s never uncertain. 

 

Maybe it’s because they both made mistakes with the plane. With Toomes, with homecoming. 

 

Right after Coney Island, Mr. Stark said to him, “A lot of things were left unsaid that shouldn’t have been, and that’s on me.” Maybe this was compensation, somehow. 

 

“ Ummm… Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

 

“ Jesus kid, no need to be so formal. Tony. Tony is my name if you weren’t aware, and that was my try at an icebreaker.”

 

“Oh. Sorry.”

 

“ No, that wasn’t what I-Nevermind. We’ll work on that later.” He motions to the side chair next to him

  
  


He can tell the man is setting himself for a lecture because he knows that Mr. Stark hates lecturing and all that hard set, tough-love kind of stuff in the way that he walks shakily through the room because it isn't really his forte. ( and yet he was the everything more and the only one left.) 

 

“Are you ok?”

 

And out of all the things to come out of Mr. Stark’s mouth, that was not something he was expecting (some criticism maybe, a lecture about a level head, and having better control over the situation or something Mr. Stark would always say after a mission.)  Because he always said something that was double-edged, in the same way he walked the tightrope of being here and not here. It wasn’t something that he needed to hear him say, to know he did good. To know he was enough.

 

(But it sounds so similar to Uncle Ben when he would say  _ ‘Are you okay with this Peter?’ _ that his stomach drops to the floor, before coming back to him threateningly fast like the air that left his body. )

 

_ It’s a rollercoaster, with Mr. Stark. _

 

“What..What are you talking about?” Because in that time it’s the only answer that comes through his head.  

 

“You haven’t been wearing the suit. Doing your..Spider-Manning, and I know that’s your whole thing. Your arc, your reason to get out of bed. So, what’s been going on?”

  
  


And he doesn’t know what to say because he knows it would sound ridiculous, that the death of this man reminded him of his Uncle, and he needs to be strong and get back out there and yet he doesn't know how anyone could ever fight for people and not think of the ones lost because blood has spilled and it’s all over his hands.  

 

“ Um, How exactly do you know that?

 

( and there’s a part of him that can’t believe that Mr. Stark remembered him telling him that. ‘His reason to get out of bed’ when he was just rambling through his thoughts like he used to do with Ben. But Mr. Stark listened, and that makes all the difference.)

 

“That’s beside the point. Not even in the ballpark. So, again, what’s been going on?”

 

“ I…”

 

_ Everyone thought I was crazy to hire a 14-year-old.  _

 

And even at that moment when he was fuming he could feel his anger pop like a balloon with holes because he knew he was in the wrong.

 

“I’m so sorry Mr. Stark. I know that I’m not being-”

 

Good enough. Everything you wanted me to be. 

 

_ If you’re nothing without that suit then you shouldn’t have it.  _

 

And he gets that now; he understands with every part of him that it’s the man that makes the suit; for better or worse. 

 

_ I wanted you to be better _

 

“ DA DA Da Da Da Da-” Mr. Stark makes a shushing noise with his finger and gives an impatient face like he did when knowing the answer and wanting to tell it already.                       

 

“Stop. I saw the footage, I’ve watched it about a million times and there was no good possible scenario that would come out of that. That was not on you. You should know that.” 

 

He pauses. Looks to the carpet like he’s searching for something through his head. Then 

 

“I know that it’s going to affect you, I get it. But you can’t control everything that every person is going to do. Sometimes, well it’s not the best words, but sometimes these things just happen.”

 

He looked right at his eyes.  

 

“So no more apologies Spider-Man.”

 

And there’s something that cracks and spills inside of him because there’s so much to apologize for. 

 

(And there was always a reason.)

 

And he doesn’t know how to live with it; the faults, and the guilt, and the forgiveness where it shouldn’t be given and not being good enough and selfish and screwing up again and again and not being able to save people.

 

_ It’s because of you. _

 

“Did you know that I had my powers before my Uncle died?”

 

Mr. Stark foot is tapping and his eyes are darting with nervous energy but when he says that his movement stops and he stares right in his eyes. He’s stricken because there’s something behind them he can’t place. Maybe he can hear the answer underneath his question. (It’s because of you.)  Mr. Stark knows his Uncle Ben, not formally but in the way that someone describes to you someone they used to know and he knows Ben’s a fragile subject; he knows what happened. He knows because there was that one time when Peter was light and dizzy from morphine after he’d been shot and started talking about a memory with Ben and he couldn’t stop; like a fountain that was covered his thumb ever since he died and it was uncovered and he just kept spouting and didn’t stop; because it had been so long since they talked about him and May had told him they could talk about it ( about  _ him _ ) whenever he needed but it felt wrong to ask the same way it felt wrong to ask for comfort in the dead of the night because it was her loss way before it was his. So, under the curious watchful eyes of Mr. Stark, he spilled and spilled and spilled until he was warm from his memory; but it was bittersweet (as nostalgia is)  because memory can never serve up to the real thing. 

 

He could see the way Mr. Stark is looking at him like everyone did when Ben died. Scrutinizing and searching, but there’s something akin to curiosity and surprise and some deep-rooted comprehension and he’s scared of shattering Mr. Stark’s image of him but he doesn’t deserve it, he knows.

 

“ Yeah. I had my powers and I could have saved him but-”

 

_ If you can do something, and you don’t, it happens because of you. _

 

It’s what’s said under the hesitation of his words that speaks volumes. 

 

Under Mr. Stark’s layered gaze there’s an ocean, and he’s sure he hears the words too, under the silence. There’s a pinch of his skin creased between his eyebrows, and his eyes are darting back and forth on his face, scanning him but they’re glistening softly and he thinks maybe he sees some semblance of maybe even understanding. ( The words that he told him in his bedroom all that time ago finally have meaning; the weight of his stare when he said ‘  _ It happens because of you _ .’)  But it’s more than that; it’s the understanding of  _ experience. _ But he doesn’t know why, because he’s Iron Man and he can control the weather for all Peter thought of him.

 

But as Peter was a boy who wanted to be better, Tony Stark was a man who tried to perfect every mistake.

 

_ (A man who even under the unbreakable red and gold iron suit there is a vulnerability; with shaky hands and trembling breath because he knows that the person comes before the superhero.) _

 

“Peter.”  His voice is gentle and yet cuts through sharply as he wills Peter to look straight at him. 

 

And he wills him to understand (because a Stark never asks)

 

“I..”  the man rubs at his left wrist while he stares empty at the side of the sofa and he can tell from the glassy look in his pupils that Mr. Stark is in a whole different world right now. There’s a second, and then he looks up from the sofa and stares at Peter for the longest time; almost in a way Peter stares at MJ. There’s something under his irises as they dart when he searches his face and there’s crease running through his forehead (looking at him like a Rubix cube that he was trying to figure out; except he was almost there and then it suddenly changed colors.) 

 

Something afraid (but understands with certainty.)

 

“Jesus Peter, there’s so much damage to unravel in that sentence, martyr complex-wise.” He laughs incredulously, but it’s scratchy, forced; Choked, like he was caught between two choices and he didn’t know which to choose and it came out as both. It was shaky, like the hand running through his combed-back hair that came back ruffled and messy and sticking out all over the place. (and a part of him distantly thinks it suits him, because it describes his erratic personality perfectly.)  

 

“You should know- you do NOT have to do this whole, superhero..thing. I know how it is, and.. Just know that it’s an option if you’re... And, needless to say, there’s always a place for you at Stark Industries. I could get you an internship, a temp job, all the good stuff. Lord knows Peppers been wanting to meet the infamous ‘boy wonder’ I’ve been telling her about.”

 

For a moment he could crack. Because he appreciates it, ( He does, he does so much;) but there’s a brewing fire in him and angry tears that burns fiercely and wants to break out and yell because in that moment that was everything he didn't want him to say.

 

And he knows what he’s been wanting him to say all along. Like Ben and his responsibility and standing up to bullies and courage and words of advice that’s he’s needed to be told, ( and a ruffle of his hair because more than anything he cared and wanted him to be happy)

 

And maybe, at that moment, he’s looking to Tony for guidance. But it was different, in all aspects. It was shaky, uncertain, fragile; and it wasn’t like Ben where he didn’t have to look before he leaned. It wasn’t like he didn’t trust Mr. Stark; he trusted him with everything the second he had his identity; and maybe there’s been doubts and regrets but he had Peter Parker’s small delicately placed world in his hands and although it was built on fragile stands without being well defined or known yet Mr. Stark hasn’t let him down; he lived up to his promise and more. 

 

Because like Ben, Peter realized, Tony was the only one that could listen ( listen and understand) when Peter would talk and talk and talk. Maybe in the spaces between mentor and a figure to him, he was the enough and everything more.  Because in a way where they were two completely different people, Ben and Tony had a common variable. Except Tony wasn’t Ben and Peter wasn’t the same child who needed a to be guided to do what was right and needed a figure and a reason. Because Ben was the one with the words and the hope and the sparks and the one that was there and gave it meaning. but Tony was different because of course he was. They were from different worlds, but by a common variable, they came together. (And Mr. Stark understood, more than anything else.) And Peter was the kid on the brink of collapse who needed someone who can tell him what happens next when everything’s falling apart. And Tony could tell him, because he’s moved mountains, but also tasted the dust in the earth that can only be tasted from being torn down and ripped apart and buried alive. (because he’s shaken and vulnerable and he’s let people down the same.)

 

And in the space between, he did care. Because Tony had walls and locks and combinations behind them but warily, gradually, he came to the same kind of care that physically hurts, from saved voicemails and texts with smiley faces on the side and crayon drawings that drew an unconscious smile ( a morality and integrity that was pure and beyond corruption and he watched it from his lab late at night looking at the saved footage from the spider suit.) Something built slowly and without the others knowledge (but it grew and grew and grew.) And it was the shaky kind. The kind without any kind of structural integrity that wasn’t defined but it started with an extended hand and shaky fingers trusting the other side that it wouldn’t let them down. 

 

one that started on the first step  _ (and grew.) _

 

“I know, out of anyone, how, hard, this line of work is. And you could just go to school, decathlon, you could live a normal life. And after everything, you deserve that and so much more. And maybe you would even be okay with it. Trust me, this may be a surprise, but I know how you feel. But you know- We try to save as many people as we can. Sometimes that doesn't mean everybody. But you.. you learn to live with it. You don’t give up. And I think in the past few months I’ve gotten to know you Spider-ling, I know Peter Parker gets back up. Always."  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hello whoever comes across this, and may I say this is my first crack at writing (and to those who have been to this story before, I am sorry, but I had to repost with my original formatting or it would've driven me crazy and I've have been having a little bit of technical difficulties.) 
> 
>  
> 
> Notes: ( And Gaahh, this is utter garbage. I just started writing utter crazy nonsense that makes some weird sense in my brain but I need to get it off my chest or I’ll explode.)
> 
>  
> 
> Also: I am aware that one line at the end was something Steve said in Civil War in response to Tony’s point of view of the Accords (It was more or less on purpose) but this doesn’t mean in this story Tony just ditched his ethics and freakin everything he fought for. I just felt that in this particular situation, Tony would think these words could apply to Peter and his situation (to keep on fighting at your lowest) and help Tony see Steve’s point of view a little bit, and slowly paved the way to some sort of consensus between Tony and Steve? Maybe? 
> 
> Anyways. 
> 
> R&R if you feel up to it, cuz I wanna see what you guys think and what you guys think I should change (or if I should just trash it altogether) 
> 
> Much Love


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